


The Disaster Picnic

by CorndogsDie



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Ducks, Gen, Scrabble, Short, enemies to friends to enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorndogsDie/pseuds/CorndogsDie
Summary: The Big Three go on a picnic.What sort of shenanigans will ensue?The kind with ducks and Scrabble.





	The Disaster Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> Another short story I did for school. I'm sorry.

The distant quacking of ducks and dull ticking from Stalin’s pocket watch felt almost painful to hear. Every second that passed dug into him like the fangs of a venomous snake; waiting would only prolong his suffering. Churchill cleared his throat and the severe Soviet man stared him down with anticipation. “He won’t be long now,” he said with certainty. Another second passed before Stalin frowned. “He’d best be.” 

Churchill shifted his position on the red tartan blanket and Stalin put away the watch as they heard an automobile approach the botanical garden. Slowly, Roosevelt placed his crutches onto the ground in front of him and started to hobble over. When reached the two, he greeted them both with a friendly handshake and sat down. Stalin said, “So, we can start on the vodka now, yes?”

Roosevelt grinned and nodded. “Yes.”

Churchill brought out a large basket and started pulling out all sorts of food. Golden party pies, crispy sausage rolls, steaming scotch eggs, crunchy cucumber sandwiches, carrots and dip. A seemingly endless amount of coleslaw and potato salad soon joined the pile gathered in the middle of the blanket. “I don’t think I brought any vodka,” Churchill spoke with an apologetic tone.

Roosevelt spied a couple bottles of whisky and a pack of cigars at the very bottom of the basket. “And that?” he asked.

“We can start on that if you’d like,” Churchill said. Stalin pulled out a large bottle of vodka from his coat and nodded briefly.

Roosevelt and Churchill drank the whisky at a leisurely pace, basking in the sunlight. Sinatra crooned through the nearby radio and even Stalin had a serene expression on his face as he steadily reached the halfway point of his bottle of vodka. Eventually, when the radio presenter moved onto the news and the ducks started their incessant quacking again, Roosevelt started clearing the blanket and pulled out a game of Scrabble. Stalin’s bushy brows raised. “What’s that? A child’s game?”

Roosevelt briefly looked up to meet the man’s eyes. “Well, yes,” Roosevelt responded. Churchill shared a look of apprehension and scepticism with Stalin. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll both love it.” Roosevelt handed them seven lettered tiles each out of a small pouch. “Use the tiles to spell out words on the board. Add up the numbers on the tiles to gain points.”

Churchill’s eyes brightened in mild interest as he pulled out a cigar and let the tip catch fire in his mouth. Stalin jumped forward and placed his tiles down in the centre - the word ‘Yield’, worth 9 points. He smirked, daring anyone to react. Roosevelt shuffled his tiles around a little before playing the word ‘Quay’ for 16 points. Churchill played the word ‘Ectopia’ for 11 points, which elicited a couple of blank stares before they moved on. No one had brought a dictionary to fact check. Stalin played ‘Ordinance’ for 12 points, which was a little puzzling considering the fact that he still had a tile left and the word was 9 letters long.

The news had long been finished and a new song had started. Sinatra again. The gentlemen quickly settled into the game which was punctuated by heated barbs between each move. “-clearly saw you with your hand in the pouch, don’t you dare tell me otherwise.”

“Ah, but I was merely picking up enough tiles to return my hand to seven.”

“You already had seven tiles.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps it was a trick of the light?”

Roosevelt was flabbergasted. “Wha- Trick of the light?! I ought to-”

Churchill tuned out the couple’s arguing again and reached for another cigar. An abrupt animalistic noise called out. Instinctively, the man searched for the source of the interruption. A duck stood directly behind his back, ruffling its feathers. The duck’s beady eyes stared unnervingly into Churchill’s own. A few seconds had passed. Nothing. He broke the connection, turning back around and lighting his cigar.

It was a surprisingly pleasant day, despite the drunken Scrabble fiasco. Sunlight shone through the rustling leaves of a nearby tree and left the dance of a million crickets in its wake. It was almost- _Quack_. Roosevelt and Stalin peered over, their argument at a standstill.

The very same beady-eyed duck from before now stood proud on the pile of various picnic goods, eager entourage near-at-hand. _QUACK!_ The ducks swarmed the pile of food at the signal. Their beaks worked like well-oiled machines at three pecks a second. A smaller duck claimed a cucumber sandwich as its prize, fleeing the scene of the crime. Roosevelt seemed distraught. “All the scotch eggs are gone,” he said. This revelation spurred the man into action. He lurched forward to shoo away the ducks, spilling his drink in the process.

The whisky slowly travelled, soaking both the board and Stalin’s trousers. “Ты дурак,” Stalin said. Roosevelt turned his head towards the man and frowned. Stalin copied his expression and yelled, “You idiot!” Hoping to help diffuse the tension, Churchill removed the cigar from his mouth and placed it down next to the board.

“Now now, Let’s stay calm and-” The board went up in flames, and with it, Stalin’s trousers. The Soviet man, now panicking and unsure of what to do, fumbled with his belt and hastily kicked off his trousers. He stomped on them until the fire died down and he was left with a very burnt and hole-ridden pair of pants at his feet. His legs ached from the red sores forming and the rancid smell of burnt hair lingered in the air.

Whilst this was occurring, the ducks, spooked by the flames, were violently lashing out at Roosevelt and Churchill. “Bugger off,” Churchill said, trying to nudge them away with his feet.

By now, the fire from the board had spread to the blanket and Sinatra’s smooth singing voice turned into something from the fiery pits of hell as the radio fried. A very irritated looking Stalin stormed over to the ducks, empty vodka bottle in hand. The ducks seemed to sense his intentions and ran in fear of their lives. “Пришю,” Stalin chanted under his breath, chasing after them.

The fire continued burning. Roosevelt grabbed the quarter-pecked bowl of potato salad and chucked it onto the flames, whacking it with his crutch. When the flames were thoroughly smothered Roosevelt slumped back down onto the lawn next to Churchill, physically and emotionally drained. They sat in silence, staring off into the distance. The sound of stomping became louder until a figure dropped itself onto the ground next to them.

Wordlessly, Churchill procured a flask from his coat and took a swig before passing it around. Once again, staring off into the distance at nothing, the three leaders sat together and the dull ticking of Stalin’s pocket watch prattled on. _Tick, tick, tick_. Their stomachs coiled and twisted with each second passing. _Tick, tick, tick_. Roosevelt sniffled and rubbed his nose. _Tick, tick, tick. _Churchill lunged at the man next to him, plucking the watch out of his pocket and throwing it into a nearby lake.

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs Wasley said that she'd fight anyone who thinks this story is bad, so you'll have to take it up with her first. I don't make the rules. 
> 
> I'm just kidding. If you have any advice to fix this up then let me know.


End file.
